She Hated Guns
by alowlypotato
Summary: DT AU. Inquiring minds want to know...what if the M/L reunion had been, um, different? I mean in a really twisted way? You'll either wanna shake my hand or kill me...


A/N: Okay, in advance I'm sorry. It's just, this popped into my head last night and wouldn't quit bothering me and there's only one way to get rid of naughty, control freak ideas, so...voila, or something.  
  
WHAT'S UP WITH THE RATING?: Could probably pass for PG-13, but I rated it R to be safe.  
  
Our Good Friend MR. DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, Dark Angel belongs not to me but to Jimmy the Camera Man and his pal the Magical Chick. I would slap them for the present state of season 2 if I could, but I can't so I'll just have to pretend.   
  
And now, on with the show...  
********  
  
  
  
It couldn't be.  
  
He hadn't felt this, the familiar air of her presence, the warmth that seemed to fill him whenever she entered the room, the sixth sense that had developed in her name and hers alone for over three months. How could he? She was dead. DEAD. He'd held her as the life rapidly drained from her and pooled in the form of blood underneath her lithe frame, staining his fingers as they grew cold and stiff in fear and shock and anguish. He'd watched her die and had since then been fighting to purge the image from his mind, fighting vainly to relieve himself of her ghost.  
  
Apparently he was doing worse of a job than he'd thought.  
  
She'd never seemed so close before, never so tangible even in his dreams. The apparition had never been able to make him feel as he presently did, his heart beating wildly in hope and fear. He'd finally snapped. He'd finally dived headfirst off the deep end. Unless, of course, she were actually there.  
  
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that she'd come back from the head. But he was scared. He was scared beyond belief that if he got up and walked over to her, his hand would pass through her and she'd dissipate as dust floating through a ray of sunlight. She looked so relieved, though. Nervous, maybe, emotionally frightened as was expected. But she seemed so happy to see him, like she'd been through something rotten and now she was safe at home. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and tell her how much he loved her and, hey, there was only one surefire way to tell if this was real, right?  
  
He lifted himself from his chair and slowly walked over to her, placing his hands gingerly on her shoulders, then her face, then pulling her lips to his without even really thinking about it as joy washed over him and repressed emotion began to overwhelm. He pulled back and smiled down at her, smoothing her hair as she ran her hand through his and then leaned her head on his shoulder.   
  
"I just...I have to finish my broadcast," he whispered when she took his hand and started to pull him over to the couch.  
  
"No," she said firmly, the force of her protest and the speed with which the warmth fled from her eyes taking him aback. The change in demeanor quickly remedied itself, though, and her gaze once again became loving, her eyes apologetic for the manner in which she'd just reacted. "Logan, I'm sorry. Right now I just need you...I want tonight to be just us, okay? No widows, no orphans, just us." She smiled and he smiled back and he let her bring him to the sofa, the thrill of having her again clouding his senses and blocking his perception and blinding him to whatever in the world might be amiss. She was back. His Max, his wonderful, stubborn, passionate Max, back from the dead, touching his face and his hands and looking at him with such longing he feared he might die from the sensations overtaking him. It took all his will power to ignore his feelings and beg the question.  
  
"How?" he inquired. "I saw you die, Max...how..."  
  
"Shh," she interrupted, placing a finger to his lips. "Just us, remember?" With that, she leaned forward and kissed him, softly at first but soon it was hard and demanding and he had pulled her close to him, settling her in his lap. It was heaven, pure heaven...how many times had he imagined what was sure to come? How many times had he fantasized about touching her how he presently was, about having her in every sense of the word? He moved his lips downward, grazing her throat and gruffly whispering her name. He felt her reach between them and his heart leapt in excitement when he imagined what she was about to do. When he felt nothing, he was slightly confused but thought it unimportant and made his way up to her ear, sucking and nibbling.  
  
And then, suddenly, there was cold and there was pain.  
  
He pulled back from her and looked into her eyes, questioning. He saw steel and then there was the pain again, originating in the center of his stomach and radiating outward, rippling as water into which a stone has been dropped. He looked down and saw blood, HIS blood, pouring over her hand and over the handle of the switchblade with which he'd apparently just been gutted. Then she swiftly pulled it from him, her gaze hard and focused and heartless, utterly rigid and heartless and he fell to the floor with a thud and a cough which brought up blood.  
  
"Max..." he gasped, "Max...no...why..." One hand reached out to her as she stood, begging, as the other slid down to clutch his gushing wound. She pocketed the knife and stared down at him coldly, and he understood with horror that she'd been broken even as his heart snapped and the unpleasant nausea of ultimate betrayal fought for superiority over the physical pain he was feeling. The world began to spin and he more sensed than saw the second figure that had entered.  
  
"Nice work, 452," he heard a male voice compliment. "Almost thought you weren't gonna be able to go through with it."  
  
"And why wouldn't I, 494?"   
  
The male clicked his tongue. "From where I stood, looked like you were actually enjoying makin' out with the guy."   
  
She sighed heavily and Logan could almost hear her eyes roll. With bitter satisfaction he chewed hazily over the fact that, as much of an emotionless soldier into which they'd apparently made her, they still couldn't wipe out that adorable attitude of hers. A slight smile tugged at his lips and a chuckle rose within him, but it came out as a cough and more blood was spewed onto the hardwood.  
  
"Well, would ya look at that. Looks like our boy's a fighter. Why dontcha finish him off and meet me outside?"  
  
At this Logan forced himself to look up, feeling horribly pathetic and hopeless when he had to employ all of his energy simply to lift his head. He found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, which the male had obviously given Max before he left, and the last thought that passed through his mind before all went black was that she'd always said she hated guns.  
  
  
FIN  
*******  
  
Post.Script: Once again...I'M SORRY. Don't look at me like that, I didn't wanna do it! Despite all the noromo feelings I've been having for the past couple months, this was not easy for me to write and it made me feel sick to my stomach and really, I think that's punishment enough, don't you? Lol. Still I invite you to slap me and burn effigies on my front lawn if you must. 


End file.
